


Cast-Iron

by Doodledust (PackGuardian)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chapter 2 gets a little gross, Dialogue Heavy, Discussion Of Murder, Gen, Indeterminate Timeline Placement, Murder, Murder Mystery, spelling, the chapter viewpoints jump around a bit but not much more than in canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29110371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PackGuardian/pseuds/Doodledust
Summary: A maid has been murdered in the Patrician's receiving room, and the Watch have naturally been charged with solving it. However, the murderer has left behind no trace and the only likely suspects all have alibis as cast-iron as the still missing murder weapon.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

Vetinari was standing against the wall on the far side of the room, twitching whenever someone entered, and glaring at the chalk 'X' drawn on the floorboards.  
Vimes entirely understood why.  
For all Vetinari acted as if he cared About The City and About The City Only, he actually cared a lot more individually than most people considered 'normal' ever did. He respected and cared about every member of the palace staff, knew most of them by name, made sure they were all properly housed and fed, and did his best to protect them and have them protected from harm.

And now a maid had been murdered in his receiving room.

Of course he was watching the entire room from that corner, cataloguing everyone who came in, counting whenever someone went out. An officer had suggested that he leave shortly after the Watch had arrived, and Vetinari had politely declined while glaring so much ice into their soul that there would probably be a new rumour stating he was part gorgon by the end of the week. Following that, most of the officers surveying the scene had been nervously content to ignore him for the most part - after all, it was his room in his palace, he had a right to be there, and it wasn't as if he was getting in the way or touching anything. He knew better than most of them on that.  
Vimes approached him from a wide angle, walking loud enough to announce his presence before he entered striking range. The last thing he wanted to do with Vetinari wound up like this was surprise him.

"Sir," he said from a little further away than he would usually start a conversation.  
Vetinari stopped glaring at the floor and his face went back into his usual expression, though his eyes still bore the silent outrage that had been evident in every inch of him just a second before and he was still breathing louder than was usually expected (1) .   
"Vimes," he said, his voice calm as ever.  
Vimes moved into normal conversation distance. "We've gotten everything that we can from the scene and the body now, sir," he said. "We're missing whatever was used as the weapon though."  
"A heavy cast-iron candlestick," Vetinari said, gesturing across the room to an empty pedestal near a pillar. "Which is now missing, suggesting the perpetrator either took it with them as they made their flight or that it has been hidden somewhere within the palace."  
Vimes floundered for a moment, mystery solved. "Thank you sir. I'll have people look for it."  
"It is part of a matching set, the remainder of which are still in this room."  
"Right. That's good reference then." Vimes noticed that Vetinari seemed vaguer than he would usually be. He wasn't looking at him for one thing, instead he was still watching the room and gripping his cane with his knuckles white.   
"Is that all, commander?" Vetinari asked.  
"More or less sir," Vimes said, taking out his notebook. "I just need to formally establish where you were at the time-"  
"Miss Ethel Mailleview," Vetinari said.

That was the name of the victim.

"Yes sir, at the time Ethel Mailleview was killed."  
"M-A-I-L-L-E, Vimes," Vetinari continued on his own train of thought, seemingly not hearing what he had said.  
"Sir?"  
"The traditional spelling of 'maille' when it is being used to refer to armour such as chainmail, though the precise spelling has contemporarily gone out of use in this case. Not 'mail' or 'male', but ' _ maille _ '."  
This distinction lost something verbally, but Vimes said nothing. He assumed it was to do with the meaning and spelling of the words. Vetinari was always fascinated by words that sounded the same. He would have to check the dictionary later.  
"Right."  
"A quarter past ten, yes Vimes?"  
"Sir?" It was almost half past eleven.  
"The time of Miss Mailleview's death."  
"Oh. Yes, sir."  
"I was in my office, reviewing once again the amended petition for the separation of the Guild of Grain Sellers from the Guild of Merchants."

Vimes frowned. "What do the grain sellers want their own guild for?"  
"I do not know, Vimes, as I am not a grain seller," Vetinari said, sounding mildly annoyed at the change of subject. "I would rather their petitions clearly explain to me, but so far they have not. Mr Drumknott will give you confirmation of my whereabouts."  
He resumed glaring at the floorboards.  
Vimes opened his mouth for a second before wisely considering himself dismissed. He gave a small salute that Vetinari didn't appear to notice and backed away.  
"Thank you sir."

No response. Vimes nodded to himself and started out of the room to talk to Mr Drumknott. He caught Carrot as he passed him and pointed at Vetinari.

"Have someone offer him a chair and then get him one anyway, he's been standing there so long he's started talking about spelling."  
"Spelling, sir?" Carrot asked.  
"Yes, going on about the spelling of the victim's name. Apparently it's got two L's in it."  
"Two L's, sir?"  
"Yes, and an E," Vimes said, then remembered that as well as Carrot was apparently able to read, he couldn't spell for love nor money. "Maille, not as in a man, or as in the post," he was fairly sure that was what Vetinari had meant, "but as in chainmail, but not in the way chainmail is spelt, the way it's supposed to be spelt."

Carrot looked at him blankly, as if all permutations of trying to fit an extra L and an E into the word 'maille' according to these rules had failed- or maybe as if he had only just realised that they were talking about the woman's surname and that he shouldn't be trying to re-spell 'Ethel', which as far as Vimes knew was spelled the usual way. The only logical way he could think to do that anyway was quite simple, to just stick the extra letters on the end and make it 'Ethelle'. Which was probably the rich person way of spelling it (2) . 

"Look, it didn't make much sense to me either. Just ask him if he wants a chair and pretend he said yes if he says no. I'm going upstairs to speak with his secretary."  
Some semblance of thought returned to Carrot's eyes. "Yes, sir."  
"Also he says there's a candlestick missing and it's probably the murder weapon. It looks like the others on the pedestals by the pillars, have people see if they can find it."  
"I will, sir."  
"Good lad. I shouldn't be long."  
Carrot saluted. "See you when you get back, sir."  
"That's right. Remember, chair for him, and look for the missing candlestick."  
"I remember sir!" Carrot said cheerfully. He probably did and probably would have remembered both orders even if he had only been told once, but Carrot had the attention span of a dog trying to decide between chasing a stick or a squirrel.

Vimes offered him a half-hearted smile, and received a broad, genuine Carrot Grin in response. He straightened his breastplate.

"Right, going upstairs."

* * *

(1): This however, brought his breathing up to around the normal volume of a person standing in the corner of a room otherwise not doing anything. Pardon the analogy, but a corpse typically breathed louder than Havelock Vetinari Not Doing Anything.

(2): Ironically to this line of thinking, one of Sybil's friends had a daughter named 'Charlot'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheery and Carrot do an experiment and things get gross. Horrible business, murder.

Being beaten around the back of the head with a large cast-iron candlestick really was a rotten way to die. Too bad being attacked from behind in any case, if you were going to be murdered you might as well be allowed to know who murdered you. That was Cheery's thought anyway.

They hadn't actually found the murdering candlestick yet, but she had been allowed to borrow one of its matching brothers and the base of it did seem to fit the shape of the crack left in the back of Ethel Mailleview's head.  
She could only wonder about the logic of choosing it as a murder weapon though. She knew she had small hands and everything, but even Carrot had been surprised by the candlestick's size and weight when he had picked it up off the pedestal.  
Cheery couldn't lift it to swing it, and he could barely get much speed behind it either. Maybe that wasn't an issue though. If you were strong enough to lift one of these candlesticks, then it wouldn't take much effort to force its weight into a killing blow. Ethel was probably dead in one strike... Lucky girl.  
One of the palace housekeepers had winced when Cheery had asked if they could possibly take the borrowed candlestick back to the yard and try hitting a block of wood with it to test its penetrating power, but permission had been granted when Carrot had promised that if the candlestick was damaged (and he didn't suspect it would be) then the Watch would take full responsibility and pay for it to be repaired. 

That's what they were doing now. Cheery and Carrot were in the back yard of the Watchhouse, with a solid block of wood around the size of a human head placed at about Ethel's height of five foot six, wearing goggles, damp with mist, and respectively ready to take iconographs and swing a candlestick with deadly force.

"Are you ready?" Carrot asked her.  
"Nearly," Cheery said, looking through the viewfinder of her iconograph box and centering the block of wood in it. "Now I am!"  
"Okay," Carrot said a little nervously, adjusting his grip on the candlestick.

He took a deep breath, hefted the candlestick into the air in the way that felt most natural, and brought it down on the block of wood with a resounding _crack!  
_The instant she heard the crack, Cheery pressed the button on the iconograph box and the imp began its work.  
Their set up rattled violently, and Carrot had to jump backwards to avoid splinters hitting him in the chin. As he did, he let go of the candlestick, and the block of wood and its support toppled to the ground with it still embedded in it.

Cheery watched stunned after it as it fell, barely noticing the imp prompting her to take the completed image.  
"Th-thank you," she said.  
"That's alright," the imp said. "Warn me next time you want a picture of something that exciting though, won't you? Nearly spilled me water I did."  
"Sorry, I promise I will next time."  
The imp nodded its head and went back into the box.

Commander Vimes leaned out of his office window two storeys above them.  
"What are you two doing?"

"Just an experiment, sir!" Cheery called up to him.  
"This is a fairly deadly candlestick, sir!" Carrot shouted.

Vimes looked at them both, then at the toppled dummy with the candlestick stuck in its 'head'.  
"Right... There's wood in your hair, Carrot."

"Thought there would be, sir!"  
Vimes looked like he might have more to say, but just nodded his head. "Well if you're not going to do any more 'experiments', come inside and write things down. It's starting to rain out here."  
"Yes sir!" Cheery shouted, "Just a few more iconographs to take, sir!"  
"Alright," said Commander Vimes, "carry on."  
Carrot saluted and he went back in from his window. 

Cheery took a picture of the dummy toppled over, then a closer one of the block with the candlestick in it. She put the iconographs in her pocket to protect them from getting wet.  
Carrot shook splinters of wood from his hair and pulled off his goggles. "All done?" He asked.  
Cheery took off her own goggles, having almost forgotten she was wearing them. "Yes, can you get the... uh..." she pointed at the candlestick.  
"Of course."

Carrot could not in fact pull the candlestick out of the block of wood, at least not while he was crouching on the damp cobbles of the yard, so he detached the block from the post it was attached to the top of and carried it into Cheery's workroom.

On the workbench, he was able to wrench the candlestick out of the wood with another loud crack and a shower of splinters Cheery couldn't help herself shrieking at.

"Sorry," she said.  
"It's alright," Carrot said, putting the (as expected, undamaged) candlestick on the bench. "It was quite stuck, wasn't it?"  
"It was," Cheery picked bits of wood out of her alchemy equipment. "You didn't swing it that hard, did you?"  
"I couldn't," he said. "It's too heavy."  
"But it did _that_..." Cheery said, her mouth hanging open as she examined the gaping hole left in the block.

A slightly damp block of wood wasn't much like a human head, but it demonstrated the point. If Ethel Mailleview hadn't died on impact, she wouldn't have lived to know she had hit the floor. It was a surprise, even though thinking about it made Cheery feel a bit sick, that they hadn't found bits of her brain flung about like the splinters that had now twice made their way into Carrot's hair. She shuddered.

"There's wood in your hair again," Cheery said to take her mind off brain matter.  
"That does keep happening, doesn't it?" Carrot said, looking closely at the wood with the same dumbfounded expression as Cheery.  
"Poor Ethel..." She said.  
"Poor Ethel," Carrot repeated in agreement.  
He took a step backwards and shuffled his feet. "You should take an iconograph of it," he said. "For evidence."  
"Oh," Cheery said, suddenly remembering that such a thing existed. "Yes, I should."

She took pictures of it from a few sides while Carrot tried to not get in her way. 

"It might explain her shoulder," he said as Cheery laid out the iconographs on the bench to dry.  
"What?"  
"Ethel's shoulder was broken," Carrot said. "On the side she was hit from. If it went into the wood that deep then..." he went a bit green but recovered. "Then whoever did it might have had a job to pull the candlestick out of her... her... um..."  
"Are you feeling okay?" Cheery asked, though it was obvious he was not.  
"I'll be fine," Carrot said shakily and swallowed deeply, trying not to open his mouth too much.  
"I think you need to go and sit down," Cheery said. "We're going to need a drink after this."  
"Mmhm..." Carrot said, not really nodding. 

Cheery almost felt the need to follow him to make sure he didn't fall over on his way to the breakroom, but she couldn't be sure she wasn't going to fall over herself. She gripped the edge of the workbench and tried not to look at the wood or the candlestick. He was right though, it would explain Ethel's broken shoulder. The murderer might have had to use his foot to-- she shuddered and shook her head violently, refusing to finish the thought.

Murder really was a horrible business to get into, even from an investigative standpoint. 

Commander Vimes went grey when Cheery went upstairs to explain to him what they'd found and to show him the iconographs.

"R... right..." he got out, looking very glad he was sitting down. "Where's Carrot?"  
"Recovering sir," Cheery said, looking half at her boots and half at a coffee stain on the carpet. "I don't think he'll be very keen to talk about it."  
"No, of course not... Good work though, Littlebottom. You can take the rest of the afternoon off if you need it."

Cheery looked up at him and shook her head, "I'll be fine, sir. You might want to offer that to Captain Carrot though sir."  
Vimes nodded. "I will. Breakroom, is he?"  
"I think so, sir. I was about to go down and check on him."  
"Good idea. Thank you, constable." Vimes looked out of the window.

Rainwater was running down the open sash and dripping onto the unidentifiable plant kept on the windowsill for that reason (1).

Cheery saluted, "N-no problem, sir."  
"Take those with you please," he said, pointing vaguely towards the iconographs on his desk.  
Cheery gathered them quickly and shoved them into her pocket. "Of course, sorry sir."  
"Send them to be enlarged as usual... I'll... be down in a couple of minutes."  
"Yes sir. I will, sir."  
"Very good."

Cheery nodded at the back of his head and closed the office door behind her. 

_Murder_ , Vimes thought. _Absolutely horrible_.

* * *

(1): Better to put it to use than let the windowsill get pointlessly wet, he had reasoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is gross, but I am kind of writing about murder. :/  
> [Edit: Fixed some of the line spacing a bit]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrot sets out to Make Enquiries

Carrot studied the list of names and addresses as he walked through the streets. It wasn't all that crowded in this part of the city yet, but he still benefited from his natural crowd parting effect as he neglected to properly look where he was going as he navigated in familiarity. Commander Vimes had sent him off work early after yesterday afternoon, so he had insisted on starting his shift earlier than usual this morning to make up for it.

The list was every member of the palace staff who were either working at the time Ethel Mailleview was killed, or were supposed to start working before or after her yesterday.  
There were also several workmen and delivery people known to have been at the palace that morning. Some of the names, neatly written out in Mr Drumknott's perfect handwriting, had been crossed out, meaning that other officers had already spoken to them. A couple of the crossed-out names had initials written next to them, indicating also who had spoken to those people. At least one of the watchmen carrying out enquiries yesterday had been drawing tidy arrows at the edge of the page to indicate the people they had spoken to on their shift who had provided alibis for each other. So far, everything said seemed to fit together and none of it was suspicious.  
On the page behind the list were abbreviated versions of a few of the statements taken that mentioned other people who hadn't been spoken to yet. Most of them were quite ordinary.

_'At ten o'clock I was with Abigale winding the clocks on the third floor. I knew it was ten o'clock because we were winding the clocks,'_ said Marjory Felter, referring to Abigale Newman of Pott Street.

_'Edward and I were in the stables from 9.45 until 10.25,'_ said Henry Western, Edward being Edward Box, who lived on Lamp Street.

_'I was with Lizzie looking out of the window in the dairy, we saw a man in a brown top hat,'_ said Daisy Williams, talking about Elizabeth Errol of-- Hang on, a man in a top hat?

Carrot flicked back to the list to check Elizabeth Errol's address. 92 (upstairs) Hatter Street. He had been heading to speak with a labourer called Frank Harrod who lived at 56 (basement) Fish Road, but Daisy and Lizzie's unidentified man in a top hat seemed like he might be more important.  
Carrot looked up to the street sign on the corner. He was on Jewellers Street, where Hannah Blythe and Christen Well lived together at number 87b and had been spoken to yesterday evening. He turned left and began to make his way towards Hatter Street.  
Lizzie and Daisy couldn’t have recognised the man in the top hat, otherwise they would have mentioned him by name. They would have said something like ‘we saw Harold, he was wearing a top hat’. Although… it couldn’t be all that common for palace staff or any other regular people visiting the palace for work to wear top hats. 

Carrot stopped momentarily to pet a stray cat that yelled at him outside of a fishmonger's and waved at the children of the grocer's next door before continuing down a covered alley and coming out onto the riverside end of Hatter Street.   
This was not the end of the street that Miss Errol lived on. The houses and apartments here numbered in the five hundreds, but it wasn't yet eight o'clock and Carrot thought it would be rude to show up at her door this early, even if she regularly had to get up for work at five in the morning.

By the time he had made it down to the nineties at a leisurely pace it was nearly twenty past eight, which felt a bit more socially acceptable of a time to knock at a person's door. Carrot found number ninety-two and knocked amicably.  
The door was opened by a middle aged landlady in a pink dressing gown.

"Good morning madam," Carrot said, "would it be possible for me to speak to Miss Elizabeth Errol please? I understand she is the upstairs tenant of this residence."  
"About yesterday at the palace?" The landlady asked.  
"Yes, madam."  
"Let me knock for her."  
"Of course madam," Carrot said politely.

She half shuffled up the stairs in her slippers and disappeared from sight.  
"Lizzie," he heard her say, "there's a watchman to see you about yesterday."

A few moments later she shuffled back down the stairs, holding her nightdress away from her ankles.

"She says you can go up."  
"Thank you very much madam," Carrot said. "I'm very sorry to have disturbed you this morning but it is crucial we make these enquiries."

Lizzie Errol was a mousey young woman with thick eyelashes. She nodded when Carrot introduced himself, and throughout his initial questioning to confirm her identity and such.

"Oh, I heard about what happened to Ethel, horrible it was!"  
Carrot nodded grimly, "Yes, it was. Your friend Daisy said you were with her at the time, in the dairy."  
"Oh yes, I was with her."  
"I understand you may have seen a man in a top hat, is that correct?"  
"A top hat?" Lizzie said, blinking owlishly. "Oh! Yes, we were looking out the window and Daisy spotted him. A strange man walking through the yard in a top hat."  
"When was this, miss?"  
"Not long after ten."

Carrot noted this dutifully.

"Did you recognise him?"  
"No, I'd never seen him before in my life."  
"What colour was he wearing?"  
"Oh, it was deep brown, like a very good chocolate."  
"And did he have any other defining features?"  
"I can't say he didn't, he didn't pass close by the window."

Carrot nodded.

"Did you know Ethel Mailleview?" He asked.  
"I knew of her, she'd sweep the fireplaces and things like that, but she didn't often come into the kitchens."  
"Did you have an opinion of her at all?"  
"No," Lizzie said. "She seemed a nice girl though, the few times I spoke to her."  
"Thank you Miss Errol, you have been very helpful."

After leaving number 92 (upstairs) Hatter Street, Carrot very carefully crossed out Lizzie Errol's name and address and, after thinking about it for a moment, put a tick next to Daisy Williams's statement on the other page.  
It was now twenty-five minutes to nine and time to continue his enquiries. Back to Mr Harrod on Fish Road as originally planned first, he decided. He didn't expect to have missed him, most of the people on the list had been politely asked to stay where the Watch could easily find them until they had been spoken to, but unlike the palace staff a hired labourer might not have been guaranteed a day's compensation. Either way, speaking to Mr Harrod wouldn't take long. He could get there in just a few minutes by walking down Trout Street.

By the time that Angua caught up with Carrot on Carriagehouse Road (1), the slightly bright morning had been replaced by grey early afternoon and heavy mist had set back in. The paper the list was written on was slightly damp, and there weren't many people to speak to left.

"Are you sure any of them got a word in edgeways?" She asked, looking at the list.  
"Yes, they gave me some very helpful information," Carrot replied. He shook his notebook as he spoke, partly for emphasis, but mostly because the cover was getting wet.  
"If you say so," Angua read the list properly. "I think the only people left are people who knew Miss Mailleview personally. I would've thought they'd be some of the first to speak to."  
"Commander Vimes said we should give them a little time to breathe before we spoke to them, out of respect."  
"Ah… that's probably why I wasn't put in charge of enquiries then."  
Carrot blinked for a moment, then decided not to say anything related. "Miss Mailleview's name is spelt in quite an interesting way, it's got an E in it."  
Angua frowned, "Yes, I think it would need one."  
"I mean another one," he said, "and another L."  
"Oh, you mean the 'maille' part. Yes, that is quite unique."  
"It's from the traditional way to spell 'chainmail'," Carrot explained. "Lord Vetinari told Commander Vimes about it yesterday."  
"So that's what he got out of him then," Angua said. "It didn't seem like much from where I was standing."  
"It must have been quite a shock," Carrot said. "He cares a lot about his staff."  
"I guess that's why Vimes has gone up to the palace then, time to breathe and all that."  
"I suppose."  
"Should we go and speak to Ethel Mailleview's mum then?"

* * *

(1): Or rather, tracked him down half through asking and half through scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd written a chapter three, but then I realised it didn't work as chapter three - so I had to write this chapter three, which is now the real chapter three. Does that make sense? Anyway, this is chapter three. :p


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile at the palace...

"If you saw it written, you'd probably think her name was 'may-le-view' or something..."  
"Quite possibly, Vimes," Vetinari drawled as he read the amended petition again.  
Well, he appeared to be reading it, but he was also standing up from his chair and looking at the paper from a funny angle.  
Vimes looked up at him. "Do you need new glasses or something?"  
Vetinari took off his reading glasses and covered his eyes with his hand.  
"No," he said. "It is just that this... gods-forsaken petition is written by, I think, seven different authors, each of whom are competing for the title of the Disc's worst penman, and none of them know how to spell 'mercantile'!"  
Then he threw himself down heavily into his chair and covered his face with both hands.  
"I have been dealing with this... nonsense for three days, Vimes..." he said exhaustedly.

No wonder he had been so keen to stand in the corner of the receiving room glowering at blood-stained floorboards.  
Vimes didn't know what to say or even if it was appropriate to say anything at all. Instead he let out a lot of air at once and gathered the mess of paper that had been consuming the ebony coffee table into some semblance of a pile. Then he stood up awkwardly. 

Vetinari was still frustratedly spilling out of his chair with all the grace of an overwatered pot plant. If he didn't wear his glasses on a chain, Vimes had the distinct suspicion they would have been thrown at the wall by now.  
He glanced at the desk, trying to identify anything that would be a bad idea to have in reach if Vetinari felt like throwing something else. There was a polished marble paperweight in the shape of a dog and the faceted crystalline ink pot, both of which had some heft to them, but they were probably out of his reach right now at least.  
Vimes wasn't even sure that Vetinari had ever experienced the furious impulse to throw something against a wall.

He would have thrown several things at walls if he had been dealing with the same amount of stress for two days, let alone three.

Vimes scratched his head and cleared his throat. Vetinari didn't move.  
He approached the desk in the same way he'd approached him in the receiving room yesterday morning.  
Comfortably ignoring each other and doing their own work in separate parts of the room was an excellent idea in theory, but it also meant that Vimes was rapidly becoming privy to facets of Vetinari's personality he hadn't realised to exist. It was like putting the man under a microscope then pretending not to look at him.

"Do you want to go for a walk, sir?"  
He was met with a barely audible sigh, which he took as a no.

Vimes was turning away to go back to the sofa, in mind to gather up his stack of notes and reports and enlarged iconographs and leave Vetinari alone for several hours - almost certain he would never be invited to share a workspace and ignore each other again - when he became aware that Vetinari had dragged himself into sitting upright and he was putting the dog-eared brown pages of the petition somewhere he didn't have to look at them for a while.

"Yes, Vimes."  
"Sir?"  
"I would appreciate going for a walk."  
"...right. I'd put a coat on if I were you, sir... it's a bit damp out."  
"Thank you, Vimes." 

They had made it to the bottom of the stairs before Vimes had glanced sideways at Vetinari and suggested they restrict their walk to the palace gardens rather than going out into the streets.  
What he had actually said was something along the lines of 'I've not actually seen that much of the gardens, how about you show me where the foxgloves are actually supposed to grow' (1). As it happens, flinging yourself at a solid piece of oak furniture that only has a thin velvet seat-pad on it as cushioning is a very good way to quickly accumulate an impressive collection of bruises, and just fastening his coat, leaving the office, and walking down the stairs, Vetinari was already moving in a much stiffer, inherently injured, manner than he would usually be.  
He had at least pretended not to be offended that Vimes had noticed this, and agreed to walking in the gardens.

“There are many windows you cannot see from the outside on this side of the palace, Vimes,” he said, looking up towards the building as they walked.  
Vimes wasn’t sure how that was structurally possible, but realised that rooms he knew for a fact had windows in them from the inside didn’t appear to have windows on the outside. “Interesting, sir. How’d you think they did that?”  
Vetinari almost seemed delighted by the thought of it. “I don’t know,” he said. “Unfortunately I have never studied architecture.”  
_Or grain-selling_ , Vimes thought. Vetinari looked away from the side of the building.  
“Pardon?” he said.  
Vimes stopped dead for a second, almost certain he hadn’t said anything out loud but convinced he must have muttered something.  
“Sir?” he said cautiously.  
Vetinari blinked at him. “My apologies, I honestly thought you had said something.”  
“I don’t think I did, sir.”  
“Then you can’t have,” Vetinari said, becoming somewhat interested in the brickwork. “I apologise, I have not slept well these past few days and I may be starting to imagine things.”

Vimes hoped not. He’d already seen more emotion out of Vetinari than he was used to today, and he didn’t want to think about him suffering from sleep deprivation - although it did probably explain his outburst in the office.

“Not a problem sir,” he said.  
Vetinari took his attention off the brickwork and continued walking. Vimes followed slightly behind him.  
“No? Then that’s settled. You were interested in the foxgloves, Vimes?”  
“Ah… yes, sir.”  
“Then shall we see if we can find them?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
Vetinari hummed and turned around in the path, both hands on his cane.  
“Sir?”  
“Foxgloves, Vimes.”  
“Oh,” Vimes took a few quick steps to walk next to him rather than behind him.  
Vetinari smiled. “Thank you, Vimes.”

* * *

(1): He had said this because 1) he actually _hadn't_ ever had the chance to have a proper look around the palace gardens, and 2) Vetinari had more than once mentioned to Sybil when he had come around for tea that the foxgloves were 'utter buggers' for springing up where they were not supposed to, and she had agreed, but Sam had no idea where the foxgloves were meant to be or why this was apparently such an issue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Projecting a bit Sam? Also writing this chapter I found out that ‘glowering’ rhymes with ‘flowering’ and that may have changed my world-view a little.  
> Vetinari versus the foxgloves is something of a headcanon of mine. I'm not entirely sure where it comes from honestly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's enough enquiring for now... Possibly the investigation is about to come to a turning point.

Mrs Mailleview had cried. A lot. In fact, she had burst into tears the moment her husband had let them into the house and had hardly let up crying to howl that Ethel had been a _good_ girl, and a _hard-working_ girl, and she was _only twenty_ , and she _didn’t deserve_ for this to have happened to her in a tone of voice that nearly made Angua’s ears bleed.  
After twenty-five minutes of Carrot fruitlessly trying to comfort her and reassure her that the Watch were doing all they could and whoever had ended Ethel’s life was definitely going to be caught and appropriately punished, Angua had torn her eyes away from a burnt portion of the hearth rug and awkwardly asked Ethel’s father and younger sister the basic questions so that they could leave.  
Even this took longer than expected (because Mr Mailleview and the younger Miss Mailleview were also trying to encourage Mrs Mailleview to stop crying), and when they finally got out of the door it was almost half past two.

“Maybe we should have spoken to her uncle first...” Angua said, slightly shellshocked as they turned into the next street.  
“Maybe,” Carrot replied, staring straight ahead.  
“I hope things are going better at the palace…”  
“Yes, you’d hope so.”  
“Less crying at least.”  
“I think there should be less crying, yes.”

They didn’t look at each other as they waited for several carts to pass in convoy across the street, but Angua eventually pulled the list out of her pocket and chanced a glance up at Carrot.

“Are… we going to speak to anyone else?” she asked.  
“We should probably write out what happened from our point of view in case they decide to make a complaint,” he said, still not looking at her.  
“I’m really sorry…”  
“It’s not your fault,” Carrot said almost emotionlessly. “People are supposed to cry when their daughters get murdered.”  
Angua put the list away and properly turned to look at him. “That doesn’t suit you, you know.”  
He sighed and turned around to her. “I don’t think I’m very good with grieving mothers,” he said quietly.  
“I don’t think anyone’s any good with grieving mothers,” Angua said reaching for his hand. “I don’t think society has evolved for it.”  
Carrot took her hand. “No?”  
“No…” she said, squeezing his hand. “Anyway, if you couldn’t console her then I don’t think anybody could.”  
Carrot gently squeezed back. “Thanks, Angua.”

Cheery was on the desk when they trudged damp and dejected into the Watchhouse.  
"Is everything okay?" She asked when she saw their faces.  
"No," Angua said flatly.  
"We spoke to the Mailleviews," Carrot said. "There was a lot of crying."  
"Oh… Grieving mothers," Cheery said.  
Carrot nodded.  
"Is Commander Vimes back yet?" Angua asked.  
"No, not yet," Cheery replied. "Did you find anything out?"  
"Not really," Carrot said.  
"Just that Ethel was…" Angua shrugged, "nice. Nobody had anything against her."  
"That's what I've heard too," Cheery said, playing with a pencil. "There doesn't seem to be any reason that somebody would want to murder her."  
"No, there doesn't." Carrot shook his head and water droplets flew off his helmet and showered over Angua.  
"Ew, Carrot! I know I do it but--"  
"Sorry Angua, I won't do it again." He took off his helmet. "But, Ethel was just kind of… Ethel. She never bothered anyone, she wasn't seeing anyone… she went to church, she sang in a choir… but mostly she just mopped floors and swept fireplaces."  
"Not a bad life for some," Cheery said, noting the time of their return in the book in front of her.  
"Not at all, quite a good life by some accounts, just…"  
"Hard to investigate," Angua said.  
They both looked at her sideways.  
"Because there's nothing _to_ investigate," she explained. "That's the thing when people violently stay out of trouble. All people can say is 'oh they always seemed nice to me', but very few people really pay attention to them."  
"Quiet people don't make it into history books," Cheery surmised.  
"That's just it," Angua wiped at water running down the front of her breastplate. "Keep your head down and no one will ever know you were alive."  
“A bit depressing, isn’t it?” Carrot said.  
“Just a bit,” Angua said. “Tea?”

The breakroom was out of milk again, but they weren’t actually that fussed for drinking tea. The mood changed a bit once Carrot and Angua weren’t dripping everywhere and they were all in the vicinity of a symbolic mug with steam coming out of it.

“So the person who did it has to be tall - shorter than Carrot but _tall_ \- and strong enough to lift the candlestick,” Cheery said, gesturing with a teaspoon.  
“Which we still haven’t found,” Carrot pointed out.  
“And we looked _everywhere_ ,” Angua said, spreading her hands for emphasis. “We looked all throughout that floor, the servants’ passages, outside, in the room even… We even checked to see if it had been swapped with one of the other candlesticks to throw us off the scent.”  
She put her chin on her hand and went quiet for a moment. “Speaking of scent, there wasn’t any. Just receiving room and Ethel’s blood. And so many people go through that room everyday that almost nothing would give us a clear lead unless it was a _really_ uncommon smell.”

“So the person who did it is taller than average and able to lift a large candlestick,” Carrot said. “And they don’t particularly smell of anything.”  
“What about the man in the brown top hat?” Cheery asked, pointing at the list with the spoon’s handle.  
“Oh that Lizzie and Daisy saw… I couldn’t find anything else,” Carrot said. “No one else saw him and nobody was able to tell me who he might have been.”  
“It’s a bit conspicuous if you’re going to commit murder, a brown top hat…” Angua said, sipping her tea.  
“We couldn’t put out a poster or something?” Cheery suggested.  
“To speak to everyone in the city who owns a brown top hat? Bit of a waste of time…”  
“It would at least cross the brown top hat man off the list,” Carrot said. “But we don’t want to be led down the wrong path…”  
“It is the only path we’ve got…” Cheery said. “Unless we want to go searching for candlesticks again.”  
“No sane person would carry a bloody candlestick through the Patrician’s palace, would they?” Angua asked indirectly.  
“No…” Carrot said, thinking. “But I don’t think most _sane_ people commit murder…"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is made, and also unmade. What's that thing about steps forward and steps back?

The foxgloves were supposed to grow in a small but elegant square flowerbed in the corner of the gardens, near a fountain that looked like the sculptor had never seen a lion before and hadn’t seen a dog in six months but had tried to sculpt one from memory and add a lion’s head to it anyway. At least creeping moss offered the unfortunate beast the vaguest appearance of a mane, but it couldn't make up for the gormless expression. The purple flowers stood tall and defiant out of the thickening white mist and the dense leaves around their base.

“There we are,” Vetinari said down his nose at them. “Where the… _specimens_ are supposed to grow, next to what is affectionately known by the gardeners as the ‘ugly lion’ fountain.”  
" _That’s_ what it’s supposed to be…” Vimes said. “I thought it was some sort of messed up dog.”  
“It might also be that,” Vetinari admitted, fruitlessly thumbing water droplets off the head of his cane.

They watched water pitifully dribble out of the side of the stone creature’s mouth for a few seconds. Then Vimes glanced back over to the foxgloves and something pulled his gaze down into the flowerbed.

“Are the leaves supposed to sit like that?” He asked, “It almost looks like there’s something hidden underneath them.”  
"Beneath them?" Vetinari questioned, turning to look into the flowerbed.  
"On the side closest to the fountain," Vimes said, pointing.

He tilted his head at the shape in the leaves. Then, with Vimes silently accepting his role as support, he poked into the flowerbed with the end of his cane. It hit something.  
Solid. Metal.  
Vetinari pushed the leaves aside and the two of them squinted through the mist.

"Is that--?" Vimes began incredulously.  
"The candlestick," Vetinari finished, not showing his surprise.

It was wet, it was muddy, snails had left their sticky trails over it, but when Vimes dug the candlestick out of the flowerbed, its base still had congealed blood all over it.

"Excellent Vimes," Vetinari said, standing to the side with both hands on his cane as Vimes put the candlestick down on the fountain wall. "If you hadn't been interested in the foxgloves, it likely would not have been found."  
"You're the one who found it sir," Vimes said, trying to brush mud off his hands.  
"Ah, but it was you who spotted it, Vimes, and you are who suggested we walk out here. Therefore it is my belief that you deserve most of the credit."

Vimes couldn't exactly dispute this.

"Uh… Thank you, sir."  
"I suppose you will be taking the… evidence promptly back to the Watchhouse?"  
Vimes shrugged, not exactly looking forward to carrying the heavy, blood-covered thing through the streets with him. "Once you're back inside, sir."  
Vetinari did not roll his eyes, but Vimes got the strong feeling he wanted to.  
"You hardly need to escort me around my own property, Vimes."  
"I left my work back in your office, sir."  
"Ah. So you did, Vimes," Vetinari said a little awkwardly. "And your helmet, I believe."  
"Yes, sir."

Likely because he was wet, stone-faced, and carrying a large blood-covered candlestick in both hands, Vimes met very little crowd resistance as he strode back towards the Watchhouse. There wasn't anyone at the desk when he entered, but he could hear voices coming from the breakroom. He stood dripping on the doormat for a few moments, collecting his breath after the brisk pace and heavy, awkward object in his arms.

"Oil!" He shouted towards the voices in the breakroom.  
Carrot stuck his head out of the doorway.  
"Afternoon, comm-- Where did you find _that_?!"

Cheery and Angua appeared at his exclamation.

"The foxgloves," Vimes said.  
"Where, sir?" Cheery asked.  
"Beneath the foxgloves, in the palace gardens."  
“In the palace gardens?” Angua repeated.  
“That’s right,” Vimes said somewhat wearily.

Sheets of old newspaper went down on the table before the candlestick did. They stared at it. What now, they collectively thought. It was all well and good having found the murder weapon, but without reasonable suspects… what now?

"It _was_ carried through the palace then," Cheery concluded.  
"Clearly," said Vimes. "But why, how, when, and by who?"  
"Probably by the--"  
"Yes, I know probably by the murderer, Carrot."  
"Sorry sir."  
"We searched everywhere - we spent most of last night searching everywhere…" Angua said, "How did a team of eighteen people who were looking for it not find it?"  
"You didn't search the gardens though, did you?"  
"No, sir, because you said there was no point in searching the gardens since if it had been hidden in the gardens the person hiding it would have been caught."

Vimes held his tongue. While he liked being listened to, sometimes it was a bit nice for people to take the initiative to ignore his more close-minded conclusions. Of course the gardens should have been searched. With the short window between Ethel's death and her being found, the murderer might still have been burying the candlestick when the Watch arrived.

"He might have walked past us," he said.  
"When, sir?" Carrot asked, breaking from staring at the candlestick.  
"When we arrived. If he'd gone straight out to the gardens and knew where the foxgloves were… he could have come back through in all the fuss and we wouldn't have noticed him."  
"He'd still be covered in blood though," Angua said. "And dirt, someone would have seen him even in the fuss."  
She was right.  
"There's back gates," Vimes said, trying to amend the floundering theory.  
"We put men on the back gates sir," Carrot said, "and we put them on the side gates."  
Well there went that.  
"If he knew where the foxgloves were, he'd probably be a gardener sir," Cheery said, "but all of them have been accounted for."  
Vimes ran his hands over his face. Then he remembered his hands were covered in mud. He sighed in defeat.  
"You might want to go and have a wash, sir."

At least that was a reliable statement.

"Might I, Carrot?"  
"Yes sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, maybe less 'two steps forward and one step back', maybe more like trying to take steps forward but there's a brick wall in the way. At least they've found the weapon now.

**Author's Note:**

> When in doubt murder a maid, right? No, don't do that. I was working on something entirely different when several chapters of this came to me fully formed so I put down the other thing and started writing this one. Comments are very appreciated on this one!!


End file.
